Maunderings and ramblings of a library assistant, mostly-unpublished writer, occasional anachronist, finder of lost books and roving researcher.

Tuesday, January 8, 2013

This is why I don't read litfic.

Every clause of this blurb further confirmed this as a book I would never, ever read:

Mothers and daughters ride
the familial tide of joy, regret, loathing, and love in these stories of
resilient and flawed women. In a battle between a teenage daughter and her
mother, wheat bread and plain yogurt become weapons. An aimless college
student, married to her much older professor, sneaks cigarettes while caring
for their newborn son. On the eve of her husbands fiftieth birthday, a pilfered
fifth of rum, an unexpected tattoo, and rogue teenagers leave a woman
questioning her place.

That last sentence in particular sets up so much... and delivers a crashing anticlimax. The least it could do is finish with 'while standing in the ruins of her burnt-out house.'